


As We Sail It

by ionthesparrow



Series: Written Works [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-03 17:56:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionthesparrow/pseuds/ionthesparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Derek Hale's life is hard, and Lydia Martin takes over the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As We Sail It

The first fear / being drowning, the / ship's first shape / was a raft  
from "We're building the ship as we sail it" by Kay Ryan

 

 

Spring, 2017 

Derek’s plane arrives at eleven o’clock at night. He hops the train and makes it into downtown by midnight. From there it’s a twenty minute wait for a fifteen minute bus ride. It’s wet but not raining, the asphalt catching and reflecting the light from the streetlamps. Pools of orange light slide over his fellow passengers; they’re mostly asleep. Derek sways forward every time the bus grinds to a halt. His eyes are dry and scratchy, but he doesn’t dare close them. 

It’s almost one by the time he’s climbing the stairs to their apartment. He slips through the door, and the sense of relief is immediate. He can hear the bathroom faucet dripping, the upstairs neighbors’ white noise machine, the branches against the window pane – everything exactly as it should be. He can also hear Stiles: his breathing is slow and even, his heart rate steady and quiet. _Home_ , Derek thinks, and something heavy rolls off his chest. He strips down as quietly as possible, snagging his phone out of his jeans – he has two new messages: 

From: Scott McCall  
 _Fine_

From: Allison Argent  
 _All’s well! See you next week!_

He closes his eyes, focuses on Jackson, and at the edge of his awareness picks up a sense of sleepy contentment. Jackson’s fine. If he’s not asleep, he’s close. 

Satisfied, he ditches the phone on the bedside stand and crawls in next to Stiles. Stiles’ typical MO is to sprawl across the center of the bed, and tonight is no different. Derek gently nudges him over. Stiles rolls, mumbling at him without ever coming fully awake. Derek presses himself up against his side, breathing in the particular smell of the spaces they share. He’s out like a light. 

Stiles’ alarm goes off at 5:30. Derek rolls away from the sound. He hears Stiles’ groan of displeasure. Half-asleep he tracks Stiles by sound, as Stiles rubs his eyes, rolls out of bed, heads for the bathroom. A minute later the, shower comes on. Derek drowses. The shower cuts off, followed by the sound of teeth being brushed. The door opens and Stiles emerges. Derek waits until Stiles walks past and then, without opening his eyes, reaches out and snags Stiles’ hand. He presses the back of Stiles’ hand to his mouth, rubs his face against it. The bed dips as Stiles sits down next to him. He strokes his free hand through Derek’s hair. Stiles smells pleasingly of soap and toothpaste, and his skin is flushed from the shower. 

“I have clinic hours this morning,” he says in response to Derek’s unasked question. “I’ll be done with class by five, though. Are you working tonight?” 

Derek weaves their fingers together, and mumbles into their combined grip, “Yes.” His voice is rough with sleep. “The early shift. I’ll be off at nine. Maybe earlier if it’s light.” 

“I’ll come by the bar after class then, alright?” Stiles leans over, kisses his temple, and gets up to leave. 

When Derek wakes again it’s just after ten. He stretches, rubs his face, and grabs his phone. He has a message from Scott: _With Allison. Everything still fine_. He turns his attention to Jackson. Jackson’s blood is up, but he’s focused and there’s no tinge of fear. Odds are good he’s playing lacrosse. With Stiles, Derek doesn’t so much have to make an effort to hear him, just needs to stop making the effort _not_ to hear him. Stiles is reading a release form to a client at the clinic. He’s fine. 

Derek relaxes and looks at the clock. Just enough time to get to work. 

Wanda’s is just divey enough that he got hired as much for his skills as a bouncer as for his ability to pull a pint, but not so divey that the hipsters won’t come in. It’s an easy gig – he spends more time handing out tall boys of PBR and Ranier than mixing drinks, and while drunk hipsters are generally dicks, it’s the kind of place that doesn’t care if he’s a dick back, so there’s that. And they serve food, so he makes decent money even when he’s on the shift that starts at lunchtime. He tells Stiles he makes enough to cover the plane tickets, which isn’t precisely true, but at least he’s going into the red more slowly. The lunch crowd has moved on, and happy hour is in full swing when he catches the sound of Stiles’ footsteps about a block out. He takes a second to put in an order for a turkey club with the kitchen. He watches Stiles come in – he fist-bumps Gabe, who’s working the door – and makes his way over to take a seat at the far end of the bar. 

Derek comes over. “Hey.” 

“Hey, yourself,” Stiles sounds tired. He sets his laptop on the bar. Derek sets a pint down next to it. Stiles smiles gratefully. “How was your flight, and all that?” he asks. 

Derek shrugs and starts to answer, but there’s a server flagging him down with a drink order. Stiles makes a shooing motion. “Go on, go earn your keep.” 

Things pick up after that, and he was dreaming if he thought he was going to get out early on a Friday. But he has enough time to drop the sandwich off in front of Stiles, and enough time to check up on him, and make sure he actually eats it. He’s absorbed in whatever it is he’s reading. Derek has no idea how he’s able to block out all the bar noise, but he does. 

Derek is finally done at 9:30, when his relief comes in – buzzed and high but, more importantly, physically present. He has the kitchen pack his shift meal to go, and parks himself in front of Stiles. When that doesn’t work, Derek folds his arms and gives Stiles a significant look. Stiles holds up a finger with his right hand – one minute - keeps typing with his left, and doesn’t look away from the screen. The typing finally slows, then stops. Stiles shuts the computer. He looks across the bar at Derek. “I am so close to finishing this.” 

_Ah, the thesis_. Derek frowns. “If you want to stay here and work on it, you’re going to have to start buying your own beer, because I’m going home.” 

Stiles scowls. “No, I’m coming, I’m coming.” He packs his shit, and only rolls his eyes a little when Derek takes his backpack from him. 

It’s a short walk home. Stiles tosses his keys away, and kicks his shoes off haphazardly in opposite directions. Derek sets the backpack down more carefully. Stiles comes up to him and places his hands on Derek’s waist. Derek lets himself be backed toward their bedroom. When the back of his legs hit the bed, he arches an eyebrow at Stiles in a silent question. Stiles grins. Derek grabs him, and spins them, so that it’s Stiles who lands flat on his back on the bed with Derek leaning over him. 

Stiles laughs at him. “Come here,” he says, pulling Derek down over him. Derek obliges - he likes kissing Stiles when he’s smiling, likes the taste of him laughing. Loves the way Stiles twines his hands in his hair when they’re making out. Derek finally breaks away, rests his forehead against Stiles, and gives himself the chance to breath in the scents of _affection_ and _safe_ and _home_ , lets it make a dent in the semi-permanent state of exhaustion he’s been walking around in for what feel like forever. “You,” Stiles says, taking Derek’s face in his hands, “smell like sweat and old beer.” 

Derek rolls his eyes and briefly contemplates smothering him with a pillow. He settles for baring his teeth in a playful snarl. Heaving a sigh, he hefts himself off Stiles, and heads for the shower. 

When he emerges, he can tell from the cadence of Stiles’ breathing that he’s asleep. Derek exits the bathroom, and there he is: sprawled sideways on the bed, feet still flat on the floor, dead to world. Derek takes a second to ask the universe for patience. He eats his cold burger from Wanda’s. 

Returning to bed, he nudges Stiles, who mutters sleepily and ignores him. “Come on, Stiles,” he coaxes, shaking him gently, “you don’t have to fuck me, but you have to take your clothes off.” Stiles eventually sits up, blinks at him sleepily, and undresses. Derek takes a moment to admire him – Stiles at 22 has filled out. Most of the softness of the boy he knew at 17 is gone, and he has the long, lean muscles of a runner. 

Stiles catches him looking. “It’s not a strip club, you know,” he teases as he climbs in next to him. “You can touch too.” 

Derek slides a hand over his hip. Stiles hums in pleasure as Derek reaches inside his boxers to take him in hand. Derek likes the way his fingers grasp at the sheets, the blush the spreads across his face and chest. Afterwards, Stiles smiles at him, lazy and sated. “You?” 

Derek shakes his head. “Worry about me tomorrow.” The last thing he does is check on Jackson, and text Scott and Allison. He waits until he gets replies from both of them, then tucks himself around Stiles, and sleeps. 

Saturday, Stiles wakes him with a wicked grin and slides down between his legs to spend a ridiculous amount of time reminding him exactly why he keeps Stiles around. They laze away most of the morning. They go running, and spend as much time as possible doing nothing until Derek has to go into work at four. On Sunday, they do it all again. Derek is pleased by the routine of it. The ease of one thing following the next, exactly as it should, with no panic or emergencies. 

On Monday, they get up at the crack of dawn so Stiles can drive him to the airport. Stiles is grouchy, but Derek can’t tell if it’s just the early wake-up call, or something else. “Only a few more weeks of this,” Derek offers. 

“I know,” Stiles rubs his eyes. “I’m just ready to be done, you know?” Stiles looks over at him. “I don’t know why I’m complaining – you’re the one flying back and forth practically every week.” 

Derek shrugs. He’d do a lot more than that to get time with Stiles. 

Stiles pulls into the drop-off lane. “Tell everyone I said hi. And tell them I’ll be down in a couple weeks for Jackson and Allison’s graduation.” 

“They know. They’re looking forward to seeing you,” Derek hates this part. 

Stiles takes pity on him, and pulls him close. “Take care of yourself,” he murmurs into Derek’s temple. “And you’re coming up for my graduation, right?” 

Derek nods. “Of course.” 

Stiles lets him go. “Well I’m fine, okay? Go catch your plane.” 

Derek goes. 

 

 

In San Jose, he retrieves his car and drives straight to Job #2, where he puts in another eight hours putting up with other people’s shit and moving large, heavy things. It’s dark by the time he leaves the warehouse, late by the time he makes it up to San Jose, and very late by the time he makes it to Scott’s. 

Scott keeps a low rent apartment near SJSU. He answers the door, but rather than inviting him in, steps outside and pulls the door shut behind him. “Allison’s sleeping,” he explains, and tips his head back towards his apartment. Standing in the breezeway of Scott’s shitty apartment complex puts them in earshot of half a dozen apartments, so they head down to the empty swimming pool where nobody ever goes. 

Scott yawns. “These late night visits suck, man. I bet you don’t make Stiles meet with you in the middle of the night.” 

Derek glares at him. “Stiles puts out. You want to go there?” 

Scott makes an offended noise. “Ug, no. If that’s how you get the priority time slot, I’ll pass.” 

Derek rolls his eyes. “Well? How is everything?” 

“Everything’s been super quiet around here. I rolled through Beacon Hills on Thursday, and Saturday like you asked. Nothing out of place, nothing seemed weird. You know – ” Scott cuts himself off. 

“What?” 

“Nothing. It’s just, Beacon Hills managed just fine while you were in New York. It’s kind of ridiculous to send one of us out to check on it every single night you’re not around.” 

Derek’s tired, impatient, and it irritates him that he’s not around to check on it in the first place, which is technically not Scott’s fault, but still. “It’s our territory, Scott. It’s _your territory_. You should care enough to go check on it!” 

“Whoa, okay,” Scott holds up his hands. “I did, alright? I went, and everything was fine. Jesus.” 

Derek sighs. “And you? And Allison?” 

“Fine,” Scott still sounds irritated. “Everything’s fine with me and Allison.” 

He’s lying. Derek lets it go. If Scott is squabbling with Allison, Derek doesn’t need to make it any of his business. “You need anything?” he asks. 

“No. Just to get to sleep. Some of us work tomorrow, you know.” 

Derek closes his eyes and counts to ten. “Yeah, Scott. I know.” 

Jackson, these days, is easier to deal with. He answers the knock on his door with a rueful smile, says, “You’re running late,” and steps aside to allow Derek in. 

Derek shrugs. He reaches out to grasp the nape of Jackson’s neck, and shakes very gently. In that instant of contact he knows exactly how Jackson is doing, feels his sense of well-being, that he’s tired, but optimistic, and that he’s pleased to have Derek back. And he’s amazed all over again at the intimacy of the connection, at what a difference it makes that _he’s_ the one who bit Jackson, Jackson’s pack leader from the very beginning. 

Jackson confirms that San Jose and Beacon Hills have both been quiet. That’s he’s fine. And Derek finally heads for home. 

 

 

Later that week, it’s pushing two in the morning, and Derek is making a grocery run. He just needs a few things. A few things and he can make it home and ride out the next few days without starving. The store aisles are blissfully empty, just the very occasional fellow traveler in this fluorescent-lit ideology, similar only in their desire to be left alone. Which is why, he tells himself later, he let his guard down, missed the cues, and ended up running straight into Sheriff Stilinski. 

The Sheriff is in uniform, and smiles in way that makes it very clear that he has not run into Derek by accident. Derek’s first thought is that there are two exits in his line of sight, one behind him – and another if you count the plate glass window. He dismisses this possibility just as fast: if he runs away from the Sheriff, there’s no way that doesn’t get back to Stiles. 

The Sheriff smiles at him, gestures at his cart. “Getting some late night shopping in, Derek?” 

Nothing in Derek’s life has prepared him for making small talk at two in the morning, in the condiment aisle, in Safeway, with the man who has both arrested him and fathered his partner. He nods stupidly. 

“According to Stiles you’re working pretty hard these days,” he gives Derek a guileless look. “You eat anything yet tonight?” 

Just barely tamping down on the panic, Derek shakes his head. 

“Well, we can’t have that,” the Sheriff proclaims. “Why don’t you check out, and we’ll head over to the diner? You know how cops feel about diners, right? Can’t get enough of them.” 

Which is how Derek finds himself sliding into a vinyl booth, across from the Sheriff, in the middle of the night, in the one 24-hour joint Beacon Hills boasts. 

The Sheriff orders coffee and pie from a waitress who calls him ‘Sugar.’ Derek orders the same. 

“Derek,” the Sheriff says when their coffees arrive, “how is it that we’re both in this little town, and yet I never see you?” 

Derek swallows. “Sheriff – ” 

“Call me Dan,” Dan interrupts. 

“Dan,” Derek isn’t sure what sort of test this is, but is reasonably sure he’s failing. “Just… busy, I guess.” 

“You’re working?” Dan gazes steadily at him. 

“Yes. I work at a winery near Morgan Hill,” he takes a quick sip of coffee which nearly scalds him, “in the warehouse. And – ” 

“And?” Sheriff Dan prompts. 

Derek’s on less steady ground now, unsure what Stiles has told his father. “And in Seattle I bartend. Three nights a week.” 

“You’re up there a lot, I gather,” Sheriff Dan takes a bite of pie. 

Derek nods uncertainly. “More weekends than not.” His pie is an untouched, congealing mess. 

Sheriff Dan nods thoughtfully. “You like it?” 

Derek stares at him blankly. 

Sheriff Dan gestures with his fork. “Bartending, I mean. And the winery. You like your job?” 

“It’s fine,” Derek says shortly. “It pays the bills.” 

The Sheriff is nodding again. “You go to college, Derek?” 

He is going to kill Stiles. He shakes his head. “No. I started. I – I didn’t finish.” 

“You ever think about going back to school?” 

“No,” he grinds out. “Not really.” 

The Sheriff holds out a placating hand. “I’m not judging. Just curious.” He meets Derek’s eyes. “Since you’re such an important part of my son’s life, and all.” 

Derek holds his gaze silently. 

The Sheriff finally smiles at him. “You’re coming to his graduation, aren’t you?” 

“Yeah. Yes.” 

“Good! Well. Keep in touch, Derek.” He stands, claps Derek heartily on the back, and leaves. 

Derek resists the urge to sink his head into his hands. 

 

 

SJSU holds its graduation on a Saturday. All of downtown San Jose is strung up with gold and blue. There is a buoyant, effervescent atmosphere, a sense that all reasons for cynicism and worry should be temporarily set aside. Derek is pleased – more proud than he had anticipated at seeing Allison and Jackson in their ridiculous black gowns – and undeniably happy about having his pack together, whole, safe, and in person. When he’s in Seattle he worries about his pack in California; when he’s in California he worries endlessly about Stiles. Having them all under the same roof, even if it’s just for this weekend, causes something tightly coiled in Derek to unwind. 

After the ceremony, they adjourn to a nearby beer garden and are joined by what feels like a significant portion of SJSU’s class of graduates and their families. Stiles has his arm casually thrown across Derek’s shoulders. Stiles glances over at Derek’s face and laughs. “Look at you, Mr. Smiley. You having a good time?” 

Derek ducks his head, embarrassed, but unable to stop grinning. 

Scott sets two enormous beer steins down in front of them. “My girlfriend,” he says, sounding as pleased as Derek feels, “graduated today. She is a bac – ca – laur –eate.” He is enunciating very carefully, and his face splits in a wide grin. 

“Dude,” Stiles says, taking the beer from him, “I don’t know how much you had to drink to get tipsy, but way to go.” 

Scott claps him on the shoulder, repeats, “Baccalaureate,” and disappears back into the crowd. 

The small miracles are not over for the day, because Derek spots Chris Argent in the crowd – who proceeds to raise his glass towards Derek in a friendly toast. 

“Whoa – did you see that?” Stiles asks him. 

Derek nods, and cautiously returns the gesture. “Today’s a truce day, I guess.” 

“Still. Did not see that coming.” 

Scott is back, carrying two more mugs of beer. He sits and takes a long drink. 

“Who’s the fourth one for, buddy?” Stiles asks. 

“The fourth one? Oh,” Scott thinks for a moment. “The fourth one is for whoever finishes first.” He nods sagely. 

“So you’re not bummed at all? No regrets?” 

“About dropping out? Me? Fuck no.” Scott holds up a slightly unsteady hand and ticks off his reasons. “I’m making good money now. I don’t have to sit at a desk all day. I hated school. Did I mention the whole job and making money thing?” 

“Yeah. Got that,” Stiles raises his glass. “Here’s to Allison.” 

Scott clinks his glass heartily. “And Jackson,” he adds generously. “Where is Jackson?” 

Derek nods towards a table in the back crowded with blue and gold jerseys, some being worn over robes. “Over there, using an unfair advantage to drink his teammates under the table.” 

“Good for him!” Scott proclaims, and drains his mug. 

Stiles turns to look at Derek. “We are so going to need to stock up on Gatorade and aspirin before tonight is over.” 

 

 

They do, on the way home. They leave Allison and Scott slumped against each other in the backseat of the Camaro, and head into the store. Derek, optimistically, adds breakfast food to the cart, while Stiles is arming them with bottle after bottle of candy-colored sports drink, saltines, and a family size jar of aspirin. They’re walking together towards the checkout when Stiles suddenly peels off, and stops dead in front of the newsstand. Derek sighs and backtracks. “What?” 

Stiles taps the cover of a magazine. “You see that?” 

Derek looks. Stiles is pointing to The Economist. The headline reads, ROAD TO RECOVERY, and there is portrait of a pleased-looking old white man sitting at the head of a conference table. Derek looks at Stiles and shrugs. Stiles taps the magazine harder and stares at him meaningfully. Derek looks again. Just visible in the edges of the photo are four of the other people sitting at the table. Three of them are also old white men. The fourth, although blurred and caught in profile, is unmistakably Lydia Martin. 

Stiles buys a copy. 

At home, Derek carries Allison while Stiles helps Scott navigate the stairs up to Derek’s apartment. Allison buries her face in his shoulder and murmurs, “Scott.” Whatever problems they’re having can’t be too bad, he thinks. Both of them get deposited on the air mattress on the living room floor, prepped expressly for this purpose. 

Jackson’s teammates drop him off shortly after. He makes it upstairs under his own power, but sways gently in the doorway. “Come on, Jackson,” Derek says, leading him towards the couch. “Time for bed.” Jackson leans over to pull off a shoe, overbalances, and almost crashes to the ground. Derek catches him and Jackson slumps against him. 

“Thanks, man,” he says, then presses his face into the side of Derek’s neck and wraps his arms around Derek in a sloppy hug. “Thank you. For everything. I mean it.” 

Jackson is radiating a warm sense of happy submission and a sense of belonging. Derek lets his arms settle around Jackson’s shoulders and broadcasts the sensation of his own happiness, tells Jackson’s that his place is his by right, that no thanks are owed. 

Stiles come in, spins on his heel, and heads for the bedroom. 

Derek gets Jackson settled on the couch. In the bedroom, Stiles is already in bed, reading The Economist. He looks up as Derek crawls in. “That,” he points to the figure on the cover, “is the current president of the European Central Bank.” 

“What’s Lydia doing there?” Derek asks. 

Stiles shrugs. “The article doesn’t mention her.” 

“Hmm,” Derek would rather not think about Lydia. 

Stiles abruptly sets the magazine down and looks at him. “Did you ever sleep with Jackson?” 

“Did I what?” Derek blinks, recovers. “No.” He’s slept next to Jackson. He’s slept with one arm thrown over him so he’ll wake up if Jackson decides to rampage around the neighborhood. He doesn’t think that’s what Stiles means. 

Stiles shoves the magazine aside and rolls on top of him. “Good.” 

 

 

-=-

 

 

Lydia doesn’t wait for much these days, but she is perfectly happy to wait for Adrian Chace. The longer his meeting runs, the better their odds for success. And really, as far as waiting rooms go, one could do worse than the bar at the Pestana Palace Hotel. She pushes her glass aside and doodles a supply curve on her cocktail napkin. The beauty of economics, she muses, is that someone has finally come up with a way for her to prove _en masse_ that her equations are both correct and efficient – and needless to say, _lovely_. The dreary bit is convincing all the tinier minds to just go ahead and implement them. And that, of course, is where Adrian comes in. 

As if on cue, he arrives and slumps into seat next to her. He gives her a woe begotten look. “Lydia, that was awful.” 

She looks him over – even his suit looks tired – and signals the barkeep. 

“Dalmore, neat,” he orders, “and another round for the lady.” 

Lydia smiles. She loves that he refers to her as ‘the lady’ to third parties. She also loves his Ira Glass-esqe glasses, and his Anderson & Sheppard suits. But most of all, she loves that while he undeniably finds her attractive, he also wears his wedding ring constantly, and speaks of his wife and family back home with honest longing. “Tell me how it went,” she requests. 

He sighs. “Well first of all, The Fund sent Fields – who I _hate_.” The other glorious thing about Adrian is that he knows absolutely everyone. “So of course we had to go through this whole charade of pretending he was there representing IMF’s interests when really he’s been there for, what? All of six months, or something? And before that he was with Moorelock Financial for well-nigh twenty years, so you know whose pocket he’s in.” He takes a sip. “He was pissed – furious – that they were actually considering suspending austerity, threw a regular shit-fit.” 

“Was the Minister swayed?” She takes a long pull on her martini. The best part about Her Life: Part II, is that there is no longer such a thing as one too many. 

“Yes, briefly,” Adrian acknowledges, “but I think we convinced him, in the end. He was quite impressed with the results from Greece and Ireland.” 

Lydia smiles, pleased. She has a list in her head that looks like this: 

To Do: 

~~Greece~~

~~Ireland~~

Portugal 

Italy 

Spain 

California 

“So a couple of US firms will be slightly less wealthy than they would be otherwise, but the economy of Portugal will mend in time to pay back the LTRO. Marvelous work, darling,” she toasts him. 

“You should be toasting yourself – it’s your plan, your work. I’m just a glorified door-to-door salesman.” He nevertheless clinks his glass to hers. 

“I couldn’t do it without you. And you put such a pretty face on the whole endeavor,” she teases. 

He laughs, “Hardly.” 

In truth Adrian is largely nondescript, which Lydia feels makes him perfect for the job. She has no desire to be the only woman in the room, or the only person present under thirty. And she certainly has no desire for people to start asking about her qualifications to shape national economic policy. “You know people are calling it ‘The Chace Plan’?” she asks. 

He sighs. “No? Seriously?” 

“I think it’s fantastic,” she takes another drink. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to get appointed to something important and then where will I be?” 

He groans. “Perish the thought.” Then he tilts his glasses up, and rubs his eyes. “As soon as this summit is over, I’m taking some time off. Heading back to California for a nice, long vacation. You should think about doing the same.” 

“I have some family in California, you know,” she says wistfully. 

“Do you?” 

“Yes,” she drifts, then shakes herself. “I’ll get back there someday.” 

She leaves him at the bar, and heads across the plaza to the flat she’s keeping. Sunlight streams in through the arches that line the square’s perimeter. She walks past the stature of King Jose crushing the snakes, and feels a certain kinship. Two battles down, many more to go, but she is indisputably winning. Perfect. 

However, because she woke up two years ago with her senses sharpened – and they are, like everything else she maintains, impeccable – she cannot help but notice that the woman dressed as a hapless tourist has followed her from the mouth of the bar, across the plaza, and now onto her own side street, her steps slightly too purposeful for what she appears to be, her heartbeat a touch too rapid. Lydia stops and, behind her aviators, rolls her eyes. Why must it be so hard to maintain zero profile while attempting to run the world, she ponders. There were whispers in Athens, sporadic unwanted attention in Dublin, and now this. She spins, and marches back towards the woman. “I’m sorry,” she says, stopping just in front of her and sounding anything but. “You look lost. Is there anything I can do?” 

The pseudo-tourist smells of nerves, and, strangely, the same distinctive mix of ink and freshly torn paper that the creepers in Dublin had emanated. She stammers out a no. Amateur. 

Lydia smiles broadly. Message sent. “In that case,” she says sweetly, “I hope you have a _wonderful_ day.” And stalks off with a bounce in her step. 

Lydia’s apartment is old-fashioned, with white-washed walls and a wrought-iron balcony. She sits and tweaks the variables for her latest plan to save Portugal from itself and, on a whim, writes a postcard to send to Stiles. 

_Wish you were here. Love, L_

 

 

That night she has dinner with Adrian in a restaurant that overlooks the Tagus. She looks at the city lights reflected in the water and thinks, not for the first time, that things could be worse. 

He smiles at her. “You look happy. You like Lisbon?” 

She looks at him. “I was just thinking it’s very different from where I grew up.” 

“And where did you grow up?” 

Her mouth quirks. “A very small town, a very long way from here.” 

“In California?” 

She tilts her head and smiles. “Possibly.” 

“Fine. Keep your air of mystery. You ever do any hiking in California?” he asks. 

Lydia laughs, surprised. “Do I look the type?” 

“You never know. When I head back to the States at the end of this week I’m going to take Donna and my son hiking on the Pacific Crest Trail – the section that runs through Yosemite.” 

She shakes her head. “I’ve never been.” 

“You should – it’s beautiful.” 

“I saw my fair share of trees growing up. I think I’ll continue to take in the urban landscape for a while yet.” 

He laughs and takes a sip of his wine. “But seriously – we’ve worked together for, what, almost two years now? And I have yet to see you take a day off. You’ll burn out this way.” 

She gives him a fond look. “Thanks, but I was just coming off a whole lot of down time when I met you. I’ll be fine. “ 

“Well,” he says gently, “if you say so.” 

She rolls her eyes, a touch exasperated. “Come on Adrian, burn out is the least of my concerns.” She meant it in a light-hearted way, but it comes out sounding more serious than she intended. 

He studies her carefully. “Lydia, is something going on?” 

For a moment, she curses the insightfulness that makes him such a good negotiator. She hesitates, tapping her nails against her wineglass before catching herself and folding her hands carefully in her lap. 

“Lydia. What is it?” 

She purses her lips. “You remember those people in Dublin? The ones who followed us to our hotel that one time? “ 

“The ones that nearly _drove us off the road_?” He sounds upset. “Why yes, I do remember them. Why do you ask?” 

She sighs. “I think I’ve spotted them here.” 

Adrian freezes. “Are you sure?” 

“Yes, they have the same…” she can’t say smell, “…demeanor.” 

He leans towards her, and drops his voice. “Lydia. If you have reason to think you’re in danger – ” 

She tries to laugh him off. “Oh, Adrian – ” 

He gazes at her steadily, his face worried. “I’m serious Lydia.” He drops his voice further, till it’s little more than an urgent whisper. “What we’ve done – what you’ve done is going to help a lot of people. I believe it’s going to save Europe – that’s why I’m helping you – but there’s a certain segment of the community that has a lot of money riding on the LTROs defaulting. They stand to lose a great deal.” He sits back. “I don’t like to think that anyone would harm someone else over this, but you never know. You need to be careful.” 

Lydia realizes that when he looks at her, he sees a delicate young woman, all by herself, and far from home. Her chest tightens, and she feels a rush of affection for him, and gratefulness for the sincerity of his concern. “Alright, Adrian,” she places her hand over his, “I will. But you really don’t need to worry about me.” 

That night as she leaves the restaurant, the plaza looks deserted, but she can hear heartbeats in the shadows. She lifts her chin. “Bring it,” she says to the empty air and walks home. 

 

 

-=-

 

 

The University of Washington’s graduation is similar in tone to SJSU, but much larger in scale. Derek spends the interminable amount of time it takes to get from Aaberg to Stilger squirming in his metal stadium seat, and mumbling awkward, monosyllabic responses to Stiles’ father’s attempts at conversation. He is not cut out for this. He spends Stilinski to Zylstra desperately pretending not to notice Sheriff Stilinski dabbing at his eyes. 

The next two days are a blur of packing up Stiles’ apartment in Seattle and driving south. Derek feels the urge to get back to Beacon Hills like a magnetic pull, which is why it is such a surprise when Stiles turns to him somewhere outside Redding and asks, “You ever think about going back to New York? Or living somewhere else?” 

Derek glances over at him sharply, then back at the road. “No.” 

“Really?” 

Derek feels a moment of panic. Beacon Hills is a small town – maybe Stiles doesn’t want to come back. “Do _you_ want to live somewhere else?” 

“No, I just – ” Stiles is gazing out the window, “I mean you could live anywhere. Travel. See the world.” 

The very thought makes Derek sort of nauseated. “Beacon Hills is home. It’s my territory.” 

Stiles shoots him a look. “Relax. I can get my master’s anywhere – if you want to be in Beacon Hills, then I’m happy to do it there.” 

A trickle of anxiety works its way down his spine: Stiles’ master’s program is two years. Then what? 

He is irritable and tired by the time they make it to Beacon Hills. And his mood is not helped when he’s cramming Stiles’ belongings into the cramped one bedroom he’s been renting and finds one box that reeks of Lydia. Derek leaves it the truck for Stiles’ to handle. 

He checks on his pack: Jackson is happy he’s home, Allison is pleased in her distracted sort of way, and Scott is deliberately indifferent. All normal. 

Not normal, though, is Scott calling him early the next morning during his drive out to the winery. “Scott. Is everything okay?” 

“Yeah, everything’s fine, except that I’m apparently your secretary,” Scott grumbles. “Doc Deaton called me; he wants to talk to you.” 

“Doc Deaton?” Derek frowns. 

“Yeah – you know, my former boss? Animal vet? The one with a waiting room constructed entirely of mountain ash?” 

Derek’s nose twitches involuntarily; he itches just thinking about it. “Yeah Scott, I know who he is,” Derek growls. “What does he want?” 

“I don’t know,” Scott sounds exasperated. “He just said he needed to talk to you, and that it was urgent.” 

Derek hangs up and pulls over onto the shoulder. He drums his fingers against the steering wheel, irritated and indecisive. Finally, already regretting it, he flips a U-turn and heads back towards Beacon Hills. 

Just stepping into Dr. Deaton’s waiting room he can already feel a burning sensation pressing on his sinuses, warning him not to go any further. 

“Derek,” the doctor greets him. “Why don’t we talk around back? I think you’ll be more comfortable.” 

Out back, among the dog runs, Dr. Deaton smiles at him sadly. “The last time I saw you I didn’t get a chance to tell you – I’m sorry for your loss. Your losses. You know I knew – ” 

“I know,” Derek cuts him off, waits. 

“Alright,” the doctor pauses, then starts afresh. “The reason I asked to speak to you is that I need your help. And possibly another werewolf needs your help.” 

Derek waits silently for him to continue. 

“Yesterday there was an attack on a group of hikers in Yosemite National Park. A family. The authorities think it was a bear attack,” he gives Derek a significant look. “And they sent me photos, as a consult.” 

Derek glares. “Maybe it was a bear.” 

“It wasn’t,” Dr. Deaton states flatly. 

“So what? You think I killed them? Or you want me to hunt down who did?” Derek does his best to convey his skepticism. 

“No. A group of hunters out of Idaho already took care of that last part.” 

“Then what do you want me to do?” Derek asks sharply. 

“Listen,” the doctor answers, just as sharp. “The werewolf was sloppy. He killed the two parents outright, but the kid lived long enough to get transported to the local hospital.” He fixes Derek with an intense gaze. “And now, I’ve gotten word through a friend that the kid is showing a _highly accelerated_ rate of healing. The Idaho hunters are not a particularly conscientious group – ” 

Derek snorts. 

“And sooner or later,” Dr. Deaton presses on, “they’re going to hear about this kid, and they’re going to decide the easiest thing to do is kill him. And that doesn’t sit right with me.” 

“Despite all outward appearances, I am not actually a werewolf adoption agency.” Derek’s voice is heavy with sarcasm. 

Dr. Deaton folds his arms across his chest. “They are going to kill this kid. He’s fifteen. He just lost his parents. He deserves better than that.” 

“Werewolves are territorial,” Derek challenges. “What makes you think I won’t just go down there and kill him myself?” 

The doctor stares at him steadily and says, “He’s at the Children’s Hospital in Madera.” 

Derek turns and leaves. He makes it into his car, but sits frozen, key unturned in the ignition. “ _Fuck_ ,” he says to the empty parking lot and gets on the freeway heading east. 

 

 

There’s no guard at the kid’s door and no one pays Derek much mind as he slips into the room. The kid is sleeping. Derek looks him over. He’s a tall, skinny kid, covered in bandages and fading bruises. He looks young, and fragile in that way that hospital beds have of making people look. Derek leans against the door, and lets the back of his head thump against it. _Idiot_ , he tells himself. 

The kid’s eyes slit open. He looks at Derek. 

Derek pushes the corners of his mouth up in what he hopes looks like a friendly smile. The kid reaches for his call button. “Wait – ” Derek moves quickly, blocking his hand. “Wait. I’m not here to hurt you. I need to talk to you.” 

The kid studies him silently. 

“The thing that hurt you? The thing that killed your parents?” The kid’s eyes widening tell Derek all he needs to know about what he saw. “Well, you’re like him now. And because of that there are people that want to hurt you. Hunters. We need to leave.” Derek freezes. Down the hall he can hear voices asking about the kid, and he can smell gun oil. “We need to leave _now_ ,” he amends. 

There is a wheelchair in the corner of the room that he all but tosses the kid into. Derek pushes him out the door and down the hall as fast as he can without drawing undue attention. It doesn’t work, he hears shouting behind him. He grabs the kid and bolts. He makes it to the garage, but loses time getting the kid into the car. Derek sees three men come piling out of the stairwell towards them. Maybe, he thinks faintly, they’re just cops. Harmless cops that just want to ask questions. The one in the lead whips out a shotgun and levels it at him. Derek smells wolfsbane. Definitely not cops. He dives into the car, puts the Camaro in gear and peels out onto the street. Next to him the kid flails wildly as they careen around the corner. 

In the rearview, Derek watches their truck skid out onto the street behind them. He floors it. 

The hospital is on the edge of town with only partially finished subdivisions surrounding them, and then nothing but farmland for miles. His only chance is to outrun them. 

At that point, the sound of automatic weapons fire fills the air. _Holy fucking shit_ , thinks Derek. 

“Holy shit!” says the kid, who has enough sense to cower low in his seat. 

The Camaro begins to fishtail wildly and lose speed. “Hold on,” Derek warns, and takes a ninety-degree turn into one of the subdivisions at approximately 70 MPH. The subdivision is brand new and has those stupid winding streets – Derek roars down them. In his side mirror, he watches the rubber tread on one of his tires separate and bounce away. The car shrieks and slides. When they’re mostly stopped he grabs the kid and begins to run. He makes it to the nearest house, glances at the address, and orders, “Stay here. Hide. Don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t breathe, I’ll send someone for you.” 

“How will I – ” 

“Go!” Derek turns in the opposite direction and starts running. He whips out his phone, dialing while continuing to sprint. The truck has overshot the entrance to the subdivision, but it’s reversing rapidly. “Stiles!” he shouts when Stiles answers. 

“Derek? What – ” 

“I need you to pick something up. It’s at 10255 Buttonquail. In Madera.” 

“ _Buttonquail_? Are you running? What’s going on?” Stiles sounds alarmed. 

“Now, Stiles! You need to come get him now!” 

“Him? Who?” 

Something slams into Derek’s leg, knocking him down – the phone goes skittering across the pavement. Derek begins to hop away, all the while chanting _idiot idiot idiot_ , inside his own head. He hears another gunshot. The world blacks out. 

 

 

-=-

 

 

Derek dreams. He dreams he’s in a cage, but every time he reaches out to grasp the bars, they melt under his touch. He dreams there are tall columns of color swirling around him. They leave tracers that mark their movement around the room. He dreams he hears Stiles’ voice. 

When he blinks into awareness, it _is_ to the sound of Stiles’ voice. He feels like he’s moving. His face feels weird. Puffy. He pokes at it. Stiles’ face looms into view. “How you doing back there?” His voice is enormous. The words spill out of his mouth looking like multicolored soap bubbles. Derek quickly bats them away before they can hit him. He looks at Stiles, concerned. Stiles’ face is melting, his features sliding around. Derek watches his eyebrow drift down towards his chin. He reaches out to push it back into place but his hand is suddenly tiny and Stiles is a hundred yards away. Stiles reaches out to pat him, and Derek watches his arm telescope out in amazement. “You, buddy, are _so high_.” 

Stiles’ words drift upward where they bounce off the roof of the – the tunnel they’re in? 

“Are we in a tunnel?” His tongue feels huge, awkward. He touches it gingerly with his fingers to check its size. 

There is a snort from somewhere in front of him. 

Stiles smiles. “No man, we’re in a car. We’re headed home.” 

_A tunnel-car_ , thinks Derek, _amazing_. He muses on tunnels, which are – now that he thinks about it – an incredible feat of engineering. He loves tunnels. “I love tunnels,” he tells Stiles seriously. 

“That’s great, buddy.” 

The seat is undulating gently beneath him. “New York has tunnels. I love New York.” He rubs his hand along the upholstery. He can feel each fiber distinctly. “I love this fabric.” Stiles turns around to look at him. “I love you,” he tells Stiles’ enormous, slidey face. 

There is a bark of laughter from the driver’s seat. Derek can’t see who it is. “I love New York,” he mutters sleepily. There are explosions of color every time his eyes shut. He passes out. 

 

 

When he wakes up again, he immediately wants to die. His head throbs. His mouth tastes like something horrible died and is rotting. He sits up, and immediately regrets it. Fortunately, there is a bucket on the nightstand next to him. He vomits for what feels like a million years, his head throbbing in time with his pulse. He stumbles to the bathroom, body feeling like it’s been beaten head to toe. He hits the light – mistake – and, groaning, flicks it off again. He drinks straight from the tap. 

His stomach clenches and he immediately brings the water back up. He sinks down and rests his forehead against the toilet bowl rim. It’s cool to the touch. His stomach heaves. He closes his eyes and focuses on the coolness of the porcelain. He hears Stiles enter the room behind him. “Hey. How you doing?” 

Derek moans. 

Stiles looks down at him. “You’ll live. And as soon as you feel better, I am going to _kill you_.” 

Derek flails an arm at him. “Shhh,” he says desperately. He has never felt this bad, ever. 

Stiles hands him a glass of water, but Derek waves it off. “The… the kid?” he manages. 

“He’s fine. He’s in the living room playing Xbox.” 

Derek nods, which sends boulders of pain tumbling from one side of his brain to the other. “What… what?” He makes an all-encompassing gesture. 

“What happened? What an excellent question. I, for one, would love to know what happened to _your brain_ that you thought facing off with hunters – by yourself – in a city – was a good idea.” 

Derek moans again. Stiles’ voice is rising. 

“Well, imagine this: I get a frantic phone call – from you. I grab Scott and drive to Madera in, like, record time. I find _Buttonquail_. I find Thomas – ” 

“Who?” 

“Thomas. _The kid in our living room?_ The one you sent me to get?” 

Derek winces. 

“Thanks to GPS,” Stiles continues, “I find your phone, I find an awful lot of _blood_. But I don’t find you. Thomas,” he gestures towards the bathroom wall in the direction of the living room, “says you were being chased by hunters. So I send him and Scott back to Beacon Hills, and I call Chris Argent.” 

“What?” Derek picks his head off the toilet to look at him. 

“Who else,” Stiles spits at him, “might know which three hunters are in town. Or how to get a hold of them?” 

Derek drops his forehead back onto the toilet. 

“Yeah, well, you have him to thank for negotiating your release. You’re lucky they didn’t kill you outright. Instead they dosed you with psilocybin and planned to interrogate you as to where Thomas was. Argent only got them to let you go because he convinced them he had dibs on killing you.” 

There is a long pause while Derek processes this. Finally, he asks, “Psilocybin?” 

“You know, mushrooms? What hippies eat for fun?” 

Derek looks at him disbelievingly. “People do this for fun?” 

“It wasn’t such a bad plan,” Stiles muses. “You were pretty chatty. Someday you’ll have to ask Argent about the drive back.” 

Derek closes his eyes and vows never to open them again. 

Stiles sighs and stands. “I’m going to go. Make dinner. Take care of Thomas. You’re going to sleep this off, and then tomorrow, you’re going to tell me exactly what the fuck is going on, got it?” 

Derek nods dumbly. 

“Good.” Stiles turns to go, then adds viciously, “Oh, and your car is in the Madera impound lot, I think you have thirty days to claim it before they put it up for auction.” 

Derek is going to kill everyone. 

 

 

Tomorrow arrives all too soon. Derek explains haltingly about the werewolf attack, about Thomas, and the conversation with Dr. Deaton. 

Stiles listens patiently, for Stiles – which means he only interrupts every other word (“You told him _what_ in the hospital room?”). And at the conclusion, he finally says, “It’s not that I disagree with what you did. It’s that I don’t understand what possessed you to go do it alone.” 

Derek shrugs. “I didn’t want to put you in danger.” 

“You mean you don’t trust us. Derek, we’re your pack. That’s what we’re here for.” 

Derek grits his teeth and ignores this. 

Stiles sighs. “Putting that aside for the moment, what are we going to do with him? He can’t sleep on the couch permanently.” 

Derek thinks. “We could put him in my house.” 

Stiles looks at him like he’s crazy. “Uh, no. We are not stashing a fifteen-year-old in your rotting, condemned house in the woods.” 

“We could put him in your old room. At your dad’s house.” 

“Are you insane? We can’t put an emotionally-damaged, brand-new _werewolf_ under the same roof as my dad! What if he tries to eat him!” 

“Hey. I can hear you, you know!” Thomas interrupts from the other side of the wall. 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “See, this is why he can’t stay here.” 

Derek gazes at him steadily. 

“Fine,” Stiles caves, “but if he’s staying with my dad, then my dad is going to know _exactly_ what he’s getting into. And you’re going to tell him. Come on.” 

“Wait – what?” This is not what Derek had in mind. 

Stiles strides out into the living room. “Come on. He’s on nights this week, if we go now we can catch him before work. Everybody in the car.” 

 

 

They leave Thomas in the Jeep, in the driveway, with strict instructions not to move. 

Inside, Stiles arranges them all on the couch. “Before we start, I’d just like to confirm for everyone present that your gun is locked in the safe, upstairs, far, far out of reach?” 

Sheriff Stilinski looks back and forth between Derek and Stiles as if trying to figure out who the more rational one might be. “Yes,” he pauses. “Stiles, what’s going on?” 

Stiles nods manically, in that way he gets when he’s anxious. “We have something to tell you.” 

A long silence stretches. 

“Stiles, I know you didn’t get him pregnant - so what is it?” 

Stiles open his mouth, then closes it. 

“You didn’t, did you?” The Sheriff is starting to look nervous. 

“Pregnant? No,” Stiles swallows, then shrugs, looks his father in the eye, and says, “Derek is a werewolf.” 

Derek chokes. He’d been banking on Stiles losing his nerve. 

Sheriff Stilinski blinks at him, then laughs and stands. “Very funny Stiles. Weird, but funny. If that’s all, I should get ready for work.” 

“No,” Stiles gestures for him to sit back down. “Derek is a werewolf,” he repeats more slowly. 

The Sheriff is looking between them again. “Stiles – ” 

“Derek,” Stiles looks at him pointedly. 

_Oh no_ , Derek thinks, _he can’t possibly_. 

“Derek,” Stiles repeats. 

Derek stares back at him, hard. “Stiles.” 

Stiles softens. “Just trust me. Please?” 

Derek looks from Stiles to his father and back again. He is so fucked. This is such a bad idea. He braces himself, then _shifts_. 

Sheriff Stilinski is staring at him, pale but steady. Very slowly, he reaches out and tugs on one of Derek’s ears. Derek snarls involuntarily, and the Sheriff all but throws himself backwards. Derek shifts back. They’re both looking at him. He feels rather like an insect on a specimen tray. He crosses his arms over his chest. “Happy?” 

In the end, Sheriff Stilinski calls in sick and they break out the scotch. They’ve fetched Thomas from the car, and the Sheriff studies them both. “So you’re a werewolf. And you’re a werewolf.” He looks at Stiles. “Is anyone else a werewolf?” 

Stiles looks guilty. “Well. Scott.” 

“Scott’s a werewolf,” his father repeats, and takes a long drink. 

“And Jackson.” 

“Jackson?” 

“And, um,” Stiles hesitates. “And Lydia.” 

His father drains his glass. “Maybe I should ask if there’s anyone who’s _not_ a werewolf?” 

“Well, me,” Stiles answers cheerfully, “and Allison. And, you know, the rest of town. As far as I know.” He looks to Derek. 

Derek nods and does his best impression of a friendly smile. The Sheriff pours himself another generous splash. 

Stiles takes Thomas upstairs to crash, and the Sheriff looks at Derek from across the kitchen table, eyes only a little unfocused. “That’s a lot of responsibility you’ve taken on.” He gestures with his drink towards where Thomas and Stiles have disappeared. “A kid like that’s going to need a lot of help adjusting.” 

Derek swallows uncomfortably. The room feels small, airless. He didn’t sign on for any of this. Didn’t sign on for raising kids. Didn’t sign on for family discussions or in-laws or helping anyone. The water level feels like it’s lapping around his ears. 

The Sheriff gives him a pitying look, like he can tell what he’s thinking. “Goodnight, Derek.” He sets his glass down and disappears upstairs as well. Derek is left alone in the kitchen. He feels pinned down and shaky with belated adrenaline. He’s sitting in the cool fluorescent light of the kitchen, still trying to get a grip on himself, when Stiles comes back downstairs. 

Stiles pulls up a chair. “See, that wasn’t so bad.” 

Derek twitches, but doesn’t answer. There’s a slow, simmering anger settling over him. He feels the urge to change and run like an itch under his skin. “Yeah, well, you’re not the one that had to risk his whole life by outing himself as _not human_ to a stranger.” 

Stiles freezes, taken aback. “Whoa, where’s all this rage coming from? Also, my dad? Not a stranger.” 

A part of Derek distantly realizes it’s ridiculous to be mad at Stiles, but he can’t help it – Stiles is right there. “Anybody that had to put up with your ridiculous schemes would be angry, Stiles.” 

“ _My_ schemes – ” Stiles breaks off and gapes at him. 

“First I had to deal with Scott. Now I’ve got another kid dumped on me. This is not exactly where I planned to be when I came back here.” 

“Yeah, well, it’s where you are – so deal with it!” Stiles is pissed too, now. 

“You don’t get it. This,” Derek waves his arm around to encompass Stiles and his dad, and his stupid kitchen, and Scott’s attitude, and Jackson’s insecurity, and Thomas’ _existence_ , “is not what I’m supposed to be doing. This is… I can’t do this.” 

“Derek, you seem to be harboring the illusion that you have a choice. Of course you can’t do all this _by yourself_ , that’s why you have me. And Scott. And a bunch of other people that _want_ to help you.” 

Derek shakes his head numbly. “I can’t do this.” He stands up. 

“So what? You’re just going to bail, you fucking asshole?” Stiles gets right up in his face. 

For a second, Derek’s wolf overlays his vision. He snarls at Stiles, who falls back looking genuinely frightened. 

_Right. Yeah_ , Derek thinks, _that was the line_. He leaves. 

 

 

-=-

 

 

The rest of the week is quiet, and Lydia loses herself in her equations. She enjoys that the complexity of human behavior can be reduced down to a series of relationships described by discrete variables. She tweaks her Matlab code – the computer is spitting out the equation of a line approaching, but never quite reaching the y-intercept that indicates an optimal result. She traces the asymptote with her finger thoughtfully, and glances at her hand written notes. She’s going to need to a more powerful computer soon. 

Emerging from her cocoon, she calls Adrian and leaves a message on his voicemail. “Adrian, I think if I expand the omega – the sample space – I can squeeze a little more accuracy out of this thing, but I need to know how realistic the government’s GNP numbers are. Do you know who I should call? Also, is there an Apple store in Lisbon?” 

She looks around. The apartment is littered with coffee cups and crumpled papers. She puts on music and cleans. When she’s finished she checks her phone and frowns; it’s not like him to not call her back. She feels a twinge of worry. Shrugging it off, she puts on real clothes for the first time in days and takes herself out to an early dinner. She tries to get her nails done at the place around the corner and is shocked to discover that it’s Sunday – and thus closed. She stands in front of the darkened door, feeling like an idiot, when it suddenly hits her: _Sunday – the weekend – hiking_. Adrian isn’t even in the country, she thinks, relieved. He’s in the middle of the woods somewhere; it's no wonder he hasn’t called her back. Satisfied with this explanation, she heads for home. 

That night however, she wakes up covered in sweat. Her heart is racing – pounding like it’s going to burst out of her chest. She’s lies frozen, terrified, then has to run for the bathroom, where she barely makes it to the toilet before losing her dinner. She stays crouched on the tile floor, gasping, her eyes stinging with involuntary tears. Eventually, the worst of it passes – her heartbeat slows, her breathing quiets. She’s able to unclench her hands from the porcelain. Her nightgown is cold and sticks to her in places. Disgusted, she strips it off and drags herself into the shower. 

It’ almost two in the morning when she crawls back into bed. She studies the ceiling until three, her mind racing and jumping at shadows. She gives up on sleep and gets up to put on water for coffee. 

By four, her apartment is cleaner than it has been in a very long time. 

By five, her closet is arranged by color. 

At six, she goes out walking. She heads away from the waterfront, turning up into the hills. The city is coming awake around her. She walks through crowds of uniformed schoolchildren and morning commute traffic. 

Around eight she buys coffee and a croissant from a man who tells her she looks beautiful. She does not feel beautiful. She considers that perhaps she’s been poisoned. She wishes she had remembered to ask Adrian when he was planning on being back. She picks apart the croissant. The coffee goes cold. She manages to wait until four to call Adrian again. It goes straight to voicemail. 

Nothing quashes the shapeless anxiety she feels. She thinks about calling Stiles. She even briefly thinks about calling her mother. That night, for the first time in a very long while, she makes an active attempt to get drunk. It doesn’t work. 

Leaving the bar, she heads out into the night. In a last ditch effort to focus her restless mind, she begins hunting the city streets for the ink-and-paper scent of the mysterious people who have been following her. She searches all night, and throughout the next day. At some point it grows dark again, but with her vision that hardly matters. She finds nothing, not even a trace. 

By Wednesday morning, she is red-eyed, exhausted, and numbly surfing through websites while obsessively checking for new emails or voicemails. She is clicking rapid-fire through pages, unable to focus on anything for longer than a second. And so when she finds it, she actually has to hit the back button to return to the headline that caught her eye. 

She reads: FATAL BEAR ATTACK IN YOSEMITE. 

From the article she learns: 1) a family of three has been killed in Yosemite 2) Authorities are not releasing the names of those involved 3) There has never been a fatal bear attack in Yosemite before. 

She buys a ticket for California. 

 

 

It takes Lydia almost twenty hours to get to LAX, but through the miracle of time zones, it’s only about twelve hours later than when she left. After transferring to the domestic terminal, she calls Stiles. 

“Lydia?” He sounds surprised. 

Even operating on no sleep, she still feels a rush of affection. “Hey Stiles.” 

“Holy shit, it is you! What’s up? How are you? _Where_ are you?” 

“Actually, I’m – ” she cuts off as she hears a loud crash in the background. “Stiles?” 

“Uh. Sorry. Hang on,” he covers the phone with his hand, but she can still hear yelling in the background. 

“Stiles, is everything alright?” 

There’s deep sigh from across the line. “Sorry,” he says, sounding distracted, “it’s been the week from hell.” 

“Tell me about it. Listen, I’m in California – ” 

“You’re _here_?” She suddenly has his full attention again. 

“Well. I’m currently at LAX, but I’m headed north. I need to know if you’ve heard anything about a supposed bear attack in Yosemite.” 

“Heard anything – ha – more like inherited a kid from it.” 

The whole world freezes. Lydia stops breathing. 

“Lydia? Lydia – are you still there?” 

“When you say ‘inherited a kid’,” she says very slowly, “what exactly do you mean?” 

Stiles sighs again. “God, it’s a long story. Let’s just say: not a bear, and the world has one more baby werewolf in need of gentle guidance – hang on,” Lydia hears more impassioned yelling occurring. “Sorry,” he says, getting back on the line, “is it at all possible we were this annoying at fifteen? It can’t be, can it?” 

“Stiles,” she interrupts. “What’s his name?” 

“The kid? Thomas.” 

“Thomas what?” 

“Thomas Chace. Why?” 

Her heart is racing in her chest. “I’m coming to Beacon Hills,” she glances up at the departures board. “I’ll be there tomorrow morning. 

After hanging up, she slumps against the wall, feeling suddenly like a boat that’s come up against the end of its anchor chain, or like a horse that’s hit the end of its lead - like she’s hit the end of a line she didn’t know she was tethered to. It’s a strange feeling that’s coming over her, somewhere between anger and anxiety, and it takes her a moment to place it. But the word running through her head over and over again is _mine_. Possessive is how she feels. And _oh_ , she thinks suddenly, _that does clarify things_. 

 

 

-=-

 

 

Derek is not hiding out at his old house. That would require that someone be looking for him, which he does not believe to be true, and would also imply that he’s doing something pathetic, like holing up to lick his wounds. Which he is not, because he’s fine. 

Totally fine. A bit scratched up, because he demolished what was left of the upstairs drywall this morning, and exhausted because he’s been avoiding thinking by pushing himself physically. Last night, he set a new personal best in sprinting from one end of the State Forest to the other. But he’s totally fine. He finishes a set of push-ups and rolls over onto his back. The ceiling is a riot of different colors of mold. He closes his eyes and pictures it pristine, white. His dad painted this room. He remembers getting in trouble for touching the still-wet walls. He remembers his sister dared him to. 

Right, where was he? Sit ups. 

He stops when his abs cramp so hard it makes uncurling difficult. He lies on the floor, panting. Outside, a branch snaps underfoot. _Jackson_ , he knows instantly. He debates hiding. Then thinks about just not getting up, and letting Jackson find him sprawled on the floor. He reminds himself that he’s fine and rolls himself upright. 

Jackson meets him at the base of the stairs. He raises an eyebrow at Derek’s appearance. It is possible that Derek is smeared with mud and liberally covered with plaster dust. “You didn’t answer your phone,” Jackson says mildly. 

Derek’s phone is at the bottom of the cesspool of stagnant water that is his basement. Derek grunts. 

Even just standing there, Jackson is radiating concern and the need for reassurance. It is too much. Derek walks down the stairs and brushes past him. “Try taking care of yourself for a couple days, Jackson.” 

He’s out the front door when Jackson calls after him. He ignores him. The next day Derek cleans up enough to hitch a ride to work in order to pick up what he is reasonably certain will be his last paycheck – he has, after all, blown off work for the last three days running. But he needs the cash to get his car out of hock. It’s dark before he makes it back home. The car’s fixed, but he’s broke. Broke, unemployed, and having successfully alienated everyone he knows. It’s fine, he tells himself, and tries to sleep. 

 

 

-=-

 

 

Lydia finds Stiles at his father’s house. He pulls her into a hug and she clings to him. It’s good to see a familiar face. 

“Lydia. You look great,” he says, letting her go. 

_That_ , Lydia thinks, _is due to a truly epic amount of concealer_. She smiles and looks him over. “You look like shit.” 

Stiles rubs his forehead. “Like I said, it’s been a week. 

Stiles’ father wanders into the room. “Hey, Lydia. How’s being a werewolf?” 

Lydia looks at Stiles, who shrugs and nods. “Fine thanks,” she answers. “How’s being the sheriff?” 

“Fantastic. Headed off to fight crime now, you kids be good.” 

Lydia quirks an eyebrow at Stiles. 

“We had to put Thomas somewhere. It was bound to come out eventually.” 

“Is he here now?” she asks carefully. 

“He’s with Scott. They’re out running or something. I needed a break. I’m playing good cop and bad cop these days.” 

She frowns. “Where’s Derek?” 

Stiles’ face darkens. “Who the fuck knows. I’ve been staying here – with Thomas – so I haven’t been back to our apartment in a couple days, but the last time I was there it didn’t look like he’d been by.” 

She points to the kitchen table. “Sit. Talk.” When he’s not even halfway into it, Lydia realizes this is going to be one of _those_ stories. “Oh, honey,” she says, and gets up to put on tea. 

Stiles is mostly put back together when Scott and Thomas tumble through the front door. They’re laughing. 

Scott freezes when he sees her and his eyes get huge. “ _Lydia_?” He walks over, pausing in front of her in an indecisive-about-hugging posture. 

She takes pity on him. “Hey Scott,” she says, embracing him. 

“Oh, man. I need to call Allison! She’s in Washington till next week. You’re sticking around long enough to see her, right? Otherwise she’ll be _pissed_.” 

“Yeah,” she says, “I’m in town for a few days, at least.” Stiles glances over at her. She lifts a shoulder in a tiny shrug. 

Behind Scott, Thomas is propped in the doorway, hesitating. Lydia’s throat tightens. He has his father’s nose. And height. “Hey Thomas.” 

He drops his eyes shyly. 

Lydia swallows around a sudden lump in her throat. “We haven’t met, but, I was a friend of your father’s. We worked together.” Behind her, she can sense Scott and Stiles’ surprise. 

Thomas darts a glance at her. “In Portugal?” 

“Yes. In Portugal. And in Ireland, and Greece.” 

“My dad liked Greece,” his face is getting splotchy, and he blinks rapidly. 

“I know. He liked the sun. He hated Ireland.” 

Thomas looks down at where he’s scuffing his sneaker against the linoleum. “Stiles, can I go take a shower?” 

“Yes, of course,” Stiles answers, sounding a bit stunned. Thomas bounds up the stairs. 

Scott and Stiles are both looking at her. Lydia carefully places her palms flat on the table and smiles weakly. “Adrian was… my pack,” she says. And bursts into tears. 

Stiles makes a second pot of tea. Scott flutters around her awkwardly until she throws him out of the kitchen entirely. 

Stiles has the grace to let her try to pull herself together before speaking. He sets a mug down silently in front of her. “Thanks,” she sniffs. He sits down across from her. She takes a sip and looks him straight in the eye. “I’m here to find out what happened to him. To find out who’s responsible. And then I’m going to rip them to pieces.” 

Stiles nods as though he finds this reasonable. 

“So,” she says, leaning forward, hands clasped around her mug, “Tell me everything you know.” 

 

 

What Stiles knows is depressingly little. A werewolf attacked the Chace family on an isolated section of trail. Thomas was airlifted to a nearby hospital with what were assumed to be fatal wounds, until he started healing. A group of hunters tracked the werewolf to a motel in Stockton and killed him. Stiles spreads his hands and looks apologetic. “They were three good ol’ boy types. They called themselves Larry, Curly, and Moe.” 

Lydia rolls her eyes. 

“ _I know_.” Stiles continues, “Chris Argent might know their real names. He said they were based out of Twin Falls, Idaho. He could probably help you find them if you feel like talking to him.” 

Lydia’s eyes narrow. “I have a few ideas on how to find them, thanks.” 

Stiles studies her carefully. “I know it’s sort of ridiculous for me to tell you this. But be careful. They already killed one werewolf, and they nearly killed Derek.” 

Lydia can see the way his throat tightens when he says Derek’s name. His heartbeat picks up when he talks about him. “I’ll be careful. You be careful too, okay?” 

That night she gets into her rental car. She idles in the intersection leading out of town, nails drumming over the steering wheel more and more rapidly. She still feels a steady pulse of dread, heavy and cold just under her breastbone. “Crap,” she sighs, and turns the car back towards Beacon Hills. 

Derek is incredibly predictable, and thus incredibly easy to find. She picks her way across the wilderness that used to be the Hale front lawn; she should have changed into flats. Derek is at the front door by the time she reaches the porch steps. He glares at her in what he probably thinks is a menacing way. “You smell like Stiles.” 

Lydia starts to put one hand on the banister, then pauses, looks at the mildew, and thinks better of it. “I’m surprised you can smell anything over the reek of pathetic desperation around here,” she says. 

Derek curls his lip and tenses. 

“Oh, please,” Lydia dismisses him with a hand wave. “We both know how that would go.” 

Derek growls. 

_Christ, this is such a lost cause_ , she thinks. “Really, I’m not here to fight with you. I’m also not here to have a fucking heart to heart. I’m here to tell you to pull your head out of your ass. I’m headed out of town, shit’s going down, and I can’t guarantee your pack’s safety.” 

He studies her. “What kind of shit?” His voice sounds raspy, unused. 

“I don’t know exactly. The kind where people die.” 

He looks skeptical. 

“Look,” she hesitates. “I lost one of my pack, okay? And it sucks. It sucks more than you can possibly imagine.” 

“I think I can imagine,” he interrupts. 

She looks at the decrepit house behind him, “Yeah. Okay. So you know – it’s bad. And it’s worse when they’re _yours_. And if you keep this up, you’re going to lose this pack, too. You can’t half-ass this alpha thing, Derek. You don’t get to pick and choose. And right now, you need to nut up, make some serious apologies, and go keep your pack safe.” She studies him again. “Although, first you need to take a shower. Got it?” 

He won’t meet her eyes. 

She throws up her hands. “Or would it be easier for you if I just took them all off your hands? You want an out, Derek, is that what you’re looking for?” 

His eyes snap to hers, hard and angry. 

“Well you’re shit out of luck, because I don’t want them. I’m not looking for a pack. But if you think there aren’t werewolves out there that would be happy to take your pack off your hands whether you like it or not, then you have got to be kidding yourself.” She pauses and raises her eyebrows at him. “So, is that what you want? You want Scott and Jackson under someone else’s control? You want _Stiles_ kowtowing to someone else?” 

Derek straightens. “No,” he growls out, sounding low, and steady, and righteously pissed-off. 

_Yes_ , she thinks, _this I can work with_. “Something is coming, Derek. Get your pack ready.” She turns to leave, then pauses and says, “Oh, and if _anything_ happens to Thomas Chace while I’m gone, I will string your entrails from here to San Diego, understand?” 

_Now_ , she can head out of town. 

 

 

-=-

 

 

Derek stares after her, long after Lydia has gone. Slowly, he brings his breathing under control, makes a conscious effort to relax his jaw. He looks down and notes his nails have left scars in the soft wood of the porch railing. He opens his hand, flexes it. 

The worst part is, Lydia is right. Who knows what hellish shit she’s dragged back with her from the far side of the ocean into Derek’s town, but he’ll be damned if he’s not going to be ready for it. 

He goes to Jackson first, because he figures he’ll be easiest. And he is. Derek calls out to him silently, so that Jackson meets him on the porch of the house he shares with half a dozen former members of the lacrosse team. Jackson looks him up and down, then raises one eloquent eyebrow. Derek sighs and lets Jackson feel his regret and his sorrow during his isolation. Jackson ducks his head and bumps his shoulder into Derek’s. “That’s alright, man.” 

“It’s really not, but – thank you,” Derek answers. He sighs. “Lydia thinks something’s coming this way, something bad.” 

Jackson frowns. “You trust her?” 

Derek shrugs. “I trust her to watch her own back. And if she’s worried…then there’s probably something worth worrying about. I want you guys ready. Stay close for the next few days.” 

Jackson looks at him, his eyes wide and dark. “Okay.” 

Derek hesitates. “If something happens, fallback to the Stilinski house. It’s a good spot to defend.” 

Jackson gives him a highly skeptical look. “Yeah, you might want to check in with Stiles before you invite us all to crash his dad’s place. Because the last time I talked to him, he was –” 

Derek holds up a hand. “I know. I’m on it.” 

Jackson still looks doubtful. “I’m just saying. You better have something good up your sleeve, because he is _pissed_.” 

Derek scowls at him. “Thanks, Jackson.” He pauses, reaches out to shake Jackson’s shoulder lightly, and says, “Be ready. Have a bag packed. Keep your eyes open. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.” He lets go, and steps back. “I’ve got to – ” he nods towards the street. 

Jackson nods. He waits till Derek is several paces out before calling, “Good luck! And remember – Stiles always leads with a right cross!” 

Derek rolls his eyes and sets out towards Scott’s. 

After he arrives and chokes out an apology, Scott just stares at him. “You’re _what_?” 

“Sorry,” Derek grits his teeth. “I’ve been an asshole. I’m sorry.” 

Scott looks dumbfounded. “You’ve been an asshole since, like, the beginning of time.” 

Derek manages not to thwack him across the head. Instead, he breathes in through his nose, blows it out through his mouth, and says, “More so than usual. I’m sorry for being more of an asshole than usual.” 

“Oh man.” Scott looks suddenly giddy. “Can I watch you apologize to Stiles?” 

“No!” Derek snaps. 

Scott shrugs. “Okay. So what’s going on?” He looks at Derek quizzically. “Unless you’re here as part of some twelve-step program?” 

“No, Scott,” he says, and repeats what he told Jackson. 

Scott takes some convincing. He eyes Derek balefully. “You want me to be ready to just drop everything and defend Beacon Hills from… something that we don’t know… that makes Lydia nervous?” 

Derek pulls out his best alpha look. “Yes.” 

Scott shrinks back a little and shrugs. “Okay,” he agrees. 

 

 

Derek makes it to the Stilinski house with the last of the daylight. He lets himself in. The Sheriff and Thomas are watching television; they both glance at him as he enters. Wordlessly, the Sheriff looks pointedly upward and then back at Derek. Derek slinks upstairs. Stiles is sitting at his desk, reading. His eyes flick up to Derek’s when he appears in the doorway, but he doesn’t say anything. 

Derek tries to think of how to begin, and fails. His chest feels tight. Finally, he crosses the room to where Stiles is and drops to the ground, next to where Stiles is seated. He presses his head against Stiles’ leg. “I’m sorry.” 

There’s a long, horrible delay before Stiles drops his hand into Derek’s hair, runs his fingers through it. 

Derek lets out a shaky exhale that sounds more like a sob than he’s comfortable with. 

“You have plaster in your hair,” Stiles says, continuing to pet him. 

“I did some remodeling.” 

Stiles hums his acknowledgment. 

Derek closes his eyes. “Please come home with me.” 

“Yeah. Okay. Let me get some things.” 

Derek is flooded with relief. 

 

 

-=-

 

 

Twin Falls, Idaho is a shitty town, full of squat, ugly buildings. Lydia parks in front of the largest gun shop in town. Chimes tinkle as she walks into Mutt’s Trading Post. She smiles. It’s empty, except for the large man behind the counter. “Hey darlin’ – you lost?” 

Lydia shakes her head and approaches the counter. 

“Well, then, you looking to buy something?” 

She reaches the glass case and drags her finger across it, as if deciding among the rows of hand guns. He leans over to see what she’s choosing. Her hand snakes out, and she has him. She _shifts_ – feels the fangs come in, watches her nails grow until they press into the tender skin of his throat. 

She has to give him credit– he doesn’t panic – just whips out the revolver he has behind the counter. The bullet slams through her shoulder but she doesn’t let go. She growls and color drains from his face. With her other hand she reaches out and snags the gun out of his hand. Then she steps away, and shifts back. “If anyone needs me, I’m staying at the Motel 8 on Pine,” she says, and leaves. The chimes tinkle again on her way out. 

She’s already stopped bleeding by the time she gets to her car, but the top is a goner. She sighs and wonders if she’ll have time to change before the Stooges show up at her door. 

As it turns out, she does. She turns sideways to admire her silhouette in the shitty bathroom mirror, and is checking her make up when the smell of wolfsbane wafts in. It makes her nose itch. She yells, “Boys, if you make my eyes water after all the trouble I’ve gone through with this mascara, I’m going to be pissed!” She checks her reflection again – definitely should have gone with a base coat. Damn. 

The smell thickens. _Are they_ burning _the stuff_ , she wonders. _Christ, better to just get this over with_. She focuses on not allowing them to move, and then opens the door to the hallway. There are two men crouched by her door, both frozen, one watching helplessly as a match burns down toward his fingertips. “Oh my, let me help you with that.” She crouches down next to him, and then very delicately, blows it out. “I suppose you both had better come in. Please, have a seat.” And of course, they do. 

“Where’s your friend?” she asks. “Wait. Let me guess, he’s the sniper? Is he on the roof? I bet he’s on the roof.” She sidles up to one of them, and walks her fingers up his tac vest. “Excuse my reach.” She bats her lashes, and then reaches into his pocket to retrieve his cell phone. She calls the most recent number. 

“Yeah?” says a gruff voice. 

“Hey! It’s me – I just wanted to let you know your two friends are here. But I’d prefer to talk to all three of you at once.” She hangs up. “Let’s make you two more comfortable while we wait, eh?” 

When Moe walks in, Lydia has Larry aiming a gun at Curly’s head. She looks up. “Let’s talk, shall we?” 

He eyes her warily. 

“I promise – I just want to talk.” She crosses one leg primly over the other. “So tell me everything about the hunt in Stockton.” 

He speaks haltingly. “We used dogs. We tracked him to a motel. I got him through the window with the rifle. Bill – ” he jerks his head towards Larry, “finished him off.” 

Lydia frowns. This isn’t really what she wants to hear. “What did he have on him? ID?” 

Moe shakes his head. “No ID. No wallet. No luggage.” 

Lydia chews her lip. 

“But there was a briefcase. He had a briefcase with him.” 

“Where is it?” 

Moe hesitates. “It’s in the truck.” 

“Get it.” 

He disappears, reappears, and sets it in front of her with a thump. “We haven’t opened it yet. It’s locked, didn’t want to force it unless we had to. It could be booby-trapped.” 

Lydia runs her hand over it. It’s leather over metal, more safe than briefcase. _Fuck it_ , she thinks, and smashes it. 

When she wrenches it open, it’s full of crisp, new $100 bills. The smell of ink and paper floods the room. “Oh, fuck me,” Lydia stares. The smell is dizzyingly familiar, and for a split second, her control slips, and Larry is leveling his gun at her. 

“Ah!” She holds him fast, just in time. “I think that’s my cue to go.” She looks at the cash. “Keep it.” 

 

 

Her sense of dread seems to speed up, and there’s now a high-pitched anxiety thrumming through her. Lydia hauls ass for Boise and is on the first plane back to San Jose. From there she drives like a crazy person to Beacon Hills, half convinced that when she gets there she’s going to find a smoking crater. Her friends decimated. But everything’s fine. 

She bursts in on Derek and Stiles having dinner in their apartment. “Um, hi?” Stiles says. She feels Derek’s hackles go up. 

“Everything’s okay here?” 

They’re both nodding slowly and looking at her like she’s nuts. 

“Oh, good,” Lydia takes a breath. Smoothes her hair back. She looks around. “You don’t have the bust I sent you up.” 

Stiles blinks. “To tell you the truth Lydia, I was sort of afraid you talked some museum into giving it to you, and that I’d be arrested for smuggling antiquities if I displayed it.” 

“Also, it’s ugly,” Derek adds. 

Stiles shoots him a look. 

She’s rapidly regaining her composure. “Of course I didn’t steal it from a museum. I talked my way onto an unfinished archeological dig. I found it myself.” 

Stiles nods. “Oh, well in that case, that’s so much better.” He studies her carefully. “Did you find what you were looking for? Did you find the hunters?” 

“No. Yes. I may have to go back to Europe. It’s all,” she waves her hands, “connected.” 

Stiles frowns. “That’s… too bad?” 

Derek, she imagines, looks a touch hopeful. 

“You’ll stay long enough to say goodbye to Thomas, won’t you?” Stiles asks. 

Lydia nods. “Sure.” 

“Have lunch with us tomorrow?” 

“Great, yes. I’ll just… show myself out,” she retreats. They’re fine, she tells herself, Thomas is fine, and everyone will probably be in even less danger with her back in Europe. 

 

 

Lunch is burgers grilled in the Stilinski backyard. It’s rather idyllic and a stark contrast to what’s going on in Lydia’s mind, which is swirling with the need to get out, find the people responsible for Adrian’s death and – whatever – they were doing in Europe, and end them. She stabs her potato salad viciously. 

Stiles looks over at her, a touch anxiously. “So, what were you and Adrian working on?” 

Across the table, Thomas’ fork freezes midflight. 

Lydia does her best to look friendly. “Adrian and I were working on an econometrics-based plan to increase the revenue of certain E.U. member countries, in order to facilitate the repayment of the last round of LTROs.” 

Stiles and Derek look at her blankly. “Ah,” Stiles says intelligently. 

Thomas shrugs. “The European Central Bank lent them a lot of money – basically for free – now they have to pay it back. But lots of them can’t because they cut spending so much they stopped growing. No new jobs, no new businesses. My dad said it was a bad idea.” The way he says this last bit makes it clear he thinks they should have listened to his father. 

Lydia smiles, pleased. “Yes, exactly. I worked out a model that showed how and when to implement quantitative easing, and where to target cash infusions in order to maximize economic growth. Adrian convinced governments to adopt it.” She turns to Thomas. “That was quite an astute observation.” 

He squirms in his chair and chases a piece of potato across his plate. “Stiles, am I going to go back to school in the fall?” he asks suddenly, like this is the first time it’s occurred to him that summer will end. 

“Do you want to?” Stiles asks. 

“Yes,” the answer is fast, definitive. 

Stiles shrugs. “Then, yes. Where’d you go to school before?” 

“The Marin Academy.” 

Stiles, who has just taken a sip of water, chokes. 

 

 

Later, when she and Stiles are piling the dishes inside, she asks, “What’s the problem with the Marin Academy?” 

He submerges a plate in the soapy water. “Nothing, except tuition is like $30,000 a year.” 

Lydia purses her lips thoughtfully. “There’s not money for that?” 

“Well, I don’t know if you noticed, Lydia, but I’m starting grad school in the fall, and Derek is currently unemployed. We barely make rent on a shitty apartment, and Derek is still driving around with a donut on his car. We are not exactly rolling in it.” 

She frowns. “What about Adrian’s money?” 

Stiles sighs. “There is a trust set up for Thomas, but there’s some kind of injunction? One of the banks is accusing one of the other banks of fraud or something? I don’t really understand, and I’ve been so busy trying to figure out legal guardianship paperwork, and avoiding kidnapping charges that I haven’t really looked into it.” 

She grabs his hand. “Show me.” 

He looks at her, startled. “What – now?” 

“Yes, now. Right now.” 

He shows her the letter from the lawyer. There is indeed an anonymous injunction holding up the release of Thomas’ trust fund. “Do you have a computer here?” she asks. 

“My dad does.” 

Which is how Lydia ends up using Sheriff Stilinski’s computer to hack into the records of the California circuit court, two international investment banks, and finally into the records of Moorelock Financial’s in-house legal team. It is surprisingly easy now that she’s properly motivated. 

And there it is, a series of injunctions, initiated by Moorelock, preventing Adrian Chace’s money from being distributed as described in his will. She frowns at the records – it’s not just Thomas’ money that’s being held up, it’s _all of it_. All the targeted investments, all the cash infusions that were Adrian’s part of helping to prop up the European economy, frozen. The picture suddenly comes into focus, and Lydia realizes it’s not even about Thomas. That Thomas’ trust fund hold-up is just collateral damage. They probably didn’t even notice, or if they did, just don’t care. “Oh, those assholes,” she mutters and stands. Her back creaks. She notices it’s grown dark outside. 

Only Derek is left in the room, and he’s watching her. “Tell Stiles I went to New York,” she tells him. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She pauses, frowning. “I don’t think this is about Beacon Hills. Or Thomas, but – but, be ready.” 

Derek nods steadily. “Watch yourself.” 

“Always,” she replies, and leaves. 

 

 

-=-

 

 

Derek stalks restlessly around the house after she leaves. He checks the locks, the windows. He scans the dark yard. In his mind he runs down his list: Scott, Stiles, Allison, Jackson, Thomas. He makes contact with each, and they’re all fine. He waits for the anxiousness to subside. But it doesn’t. Despite what Lydia said, he can’t shake the feeling that something bad is coming for Beacon Hills, and his pack. in the hours before dawn, his sense of general malaise crystallizes into sudden certainty of a nearby threat. He wakes Stiles, who is crashed out on his father’s couch. “Call Scott. Get him here. Then get Thomas, set him up in the bathroom.” He pauses, considering. “Call Argent, too.” 

The last sleep clears from Stiles’ eyes instantly. He nods grimly and grabs for his phone, already on his way upstairs. 

_Now_ , Derek calls to Jackson. _Get here now. Be careful._

Derek watches the darkness outside, but everything is still. He starts at a noise behind him, but it’s just Sheriff Stilinski coming down the stairs. He looks like he dressed in a hurry. “What’s going on?” 

Derek nods at the darkness surrounding the house. “Something’s out there.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what yet.” 

The Sheriff digests this. “What can I do?” 

“If they’re human, your gun will be handy. If they’re not –” He breaks off, weighing his trust versus the significance of what he’s about to say. “If they’re not, bullets won’t stop them. But there are certain plants that will slow them down. Dr. Deaton will have them. He should be able to show you how to make ammunition with them.” 

The Sheriff studies him. “And then what?” 

“Patrol. Odds are they’ll avoid the cops, but it’ll be nice to know what direction they’re not coming from.” 

The Sheriff pauses at the door. “You watch my son’s my back.” 

Derek acknowledges this with a small nod, and the Sheriff leaves. 

When Scott arrives, Derek sends him up to the rooftops where he’s happiest, and takes comfort in the periodic thumps and scrapes he hears that mark Scott’s overhead circuit. Jackson he sends out to patrol a wide, ambling perimeter around the house. 

Derek’s just put his back up against a wall, and is watching the front yard when Stiles jogs down the stairs. Derek scowls. “You should be with Thomas.” _Safely tucked away upstairs_ , he adds internally. 

Stiles scoffs. He walks over to the stereo cabinet and flips it open. He runs his hands over the jumble of equipment, and presses a couple buttons. There’s a hiss of static, and then Derek can hear the voice of Sheriff Stilinski calling in extra patrol units. 

“Police scanner,” Stiles says shortly. He comes over to stand next to Derek. “Now what?” 

Derek glances over at him, then back to the yard. “Now we wait.” 

The first sign is one of Stilinski’s deputies calling in a 917. Over the radio, his voice is crackly and distant. “Not sure if this is what you’re looking for, Boss, but I’ve got two black vans, riding real low to the ground, rolling towards Beacon. Advise.” 

There’s a pause before the Sheriff’s voice answers. “Roger that, Peters. Stay back. I’m headed towards your twenty.” 

Derek can hear Stiles’ heart rate start to pick up. 

As they get closer, Derek can discern more about them. He stretches his senses. They smell of metal and Kevlar. Their heartbeats are too confused and overlapping for him to pin down a number, but interspersed among them is the distinctive, acrid smell of werewolves. He opens his eyes and turns to Stiles. “More than six, less than twenty. They have werewolves with them.” He sends this on to Jackson and Scott, while Stiles uses his cell to pass the info to his father and Argent. Across the street, Derek hears the ratcheting sound of the bolt on Argent’ rifle sliding home. 

When they arrive, it’s with a squeal of tires. The vans disgorge their occupants – there are twelve of them – and they spill out onto the yard, looking like someone’s private SWAT team. The scene erupts into chaos. Scott instantly takes out two with a wild leap off the roof. Jackson has looped in behind them, picking off the slowest members of the team before they have time to notice him. Derek has a moment of vicious, bloodthirsty _pride_ in his pack and their abilities. He’s hardly had a chance to get his claws wet when Stiles is screaming out, “Second wave!” And then Derek is hustling to get Scott and Jackson out of the way, because the place is about to become a shooting gallery of wolfsbane-laced bullets. 

It’s clear that while this team came equipped to fight a small group of werewolves, they had not anticipated being on the receiving end of the local law enforcement’s wrath. Sirens shriek around the corner, and the remaining attackers are trapped between their guns and Argent’s sniper. They go down quickly. Derek takes a moment to ponder whether he should be upset that Dr. Deaton has apparently been harboring a stockpile of werewolf-killing bullets in cop-friendly calibers, but he can’t really bring himself to care. Adrenaline is spiking through him, and he is grinning like an idiot, collapsed against the side of the house with Scott sprawled next to him and Jackson panting nearby. 

Scott looks at him and laughs. Which sets them all off. 

“Shh, shh!” Scott implores them fruitlessly. “And lose the fangs before somebody wanders back here!” 

Derek presses his lips firmly together, but he has tears of mirth leaking down his face. Jackson snorts. 

The dim, gray light of daybreak is invading the yard. They pick themselves up and stumble inside where Stiles is waiting. 

“Holy shit,” Stiles says, looking at the blood splattering their clothes. “Tell me none of that’s yours.” 

Derek turns to check in with Scott and Jackson, who both shake their heads. Derek smiles, pleased. “Well done.” 

 

 

-=-

 

 

Moorelock’s New York offices are easy to find. So is the office of the chairman. She lets herself in. 

The chairman – his name is Lloyd Blank – blinks at her in surprise. His hand moves to his phone. 

“Don’t call security,” she says. She sits down across from him. There’s enormous desk between them, made of gorgeous burnished wood. Surprisingly healthy looking orchids are set on either side, their slim stalks reaching upwards. A series of Malvich paintings decorate the wall behind him. What a shame, Lydia thinks, that it’s going to get destroyed. 

His hand freezes, drops. He taps one finger to his chin, then points at her. “I recognize you. We have photos of you. You’re Adrian Chace’s mistress. What are you doing on this side of the pond?” 

Lydia feels a stab of anger. “Is that what you thought?” 

“Is there any other reason you’d follow him around the E.U. while he sold his harebrained development scheme?” He doesn’t seem at all concerned that she’s here. He smirks. 

“It wasn’t like that.” 

He rocks back in his chair, casual. “Of course not. I’m sure he loved you very much, and was just waiting for the right moment to break it to his wife.” 

Lydia’s anger is a fiery, all-encompassing thing. She swallows it down, and with conscious calm, says, “That ‘harebrained scheme’ was based on a model with 3,014 discreet variables, each one individually constrained and tested.” 

“You know, Ms. Martin, I knew you were a multifaceted young lady, but I didn’t actually realize that number cruncher was one of your roles.” His eyes flick up to hers and he smiles. 

With sudden, absolute clarity Lydia realizes that he _knows_. That she’s being played. 

He steeples his fingers in front of him and his smile broadens. “Did you really think, Ms. Martin, that the way Adrian Chace died was a _coincidence_?” 

Lydia feels the itch of her claws beneath her skin. 

“I’m sure you can imagine,” he continues, “how useful people with your particular talents can be. So we were delighted to discover that Adrian Chace’s mistress , bodyguard, and – ” he gestures towards her conciliatory, mocking, “apparently, pet economist, was so _gifted_.” He studies her face carefully. “Really it was win-win for us. Remove Adrian Chace and we protect our investment, but we _also_ free up the delightfully talented Ms. Martin for future employment at Moorelock. 

Lydia blinks. “Mr. Blank, there’s not a benefits package on this earth that could tempt me.” 

“Yes, well, I rather figured. You lot are a possessive bunch,” he concedes. “But the way I understand it, is that once you’ve been demoted from ‘alpha’ to ‘beta’ – which my colleague Mr. Schultz will take of, and once we clean up what’s left of your ‘pack’ out in that sleepy little California town – which we are doing,” he makes a show of checking his watch, “right now. Then you really won’t have much of a say in the matter.” He holds his hands out as if to say _and there you have it_ , and then his eyes flicker to over her shoulder. “Ah, Mr. Schultz. Just in time.” 

Lydia didn’t hear him come in. But she can see him now, in the reflection in the glass behind Blank’s desk. Her eyes flicker between Blank and Schultz. 

“Obviously if we’d known you were coming today we could have set this up somewhere more appropriate,” Mr. Blank sighs. “But needs must.” He stands. “And with that, I really should be going.” 

Lydia moves to stand between him and the door. 

Behind her, Schultz growls, low and throaty. “Oh Ms. Martin,” Mr. Blank says with mock sympathy, “I really don’t think _I_ should be your priority right now.” 

Lydia pivots so she can keep both of them in her line of sight. An angry alpha musk is rolling off Schultz in veritable waves. Her breath quickens. “Oh, I don’t know, Mr. Blank,” she feels her mouth twist in an bitter smile. “I’ve always been good at multitasking.” 

In the next instant, several things happen – Lydia _shifts_ , Lloyd Blank ducks around her, and Schultz leaps. Her claws rake Blank as he attempts to slip by, and she is just getting purchase when she’s bowled over by Schultz’ impact. Snarling, she throws him off. He makes a very satisfying smack against the far wall. There’s an almost comical moment when she watches Schultz shake himself and lock eyes with Blank, _that wasn’t supposed to happen_ , clear on both their faces. 

Lydia cracks her knuckles. “Maybe this about to become obvious,” she says, “but you really, really should not have fucked with me. And you really should not have fucked with my pack.” 

Schultz charges again, and Blank bolts for the door. This time, Lydia sends Schultz on an intercept course, so that his body knocks Blank down on its way into the wall. She stalks over to Schultz’ prone form, presses him firmly back to the ground when he tries to rise. She looks at Blank. “I want you to pay attention to the quick and relatively painless way I’m about to kill him. That way you’ll have something to wish for.” Breaking Schultz’ neck is almost an afterthought. 

Blank gazes up at her. His mouth is moving, but nothing’s coming out. 

She takes him apart. 

 

 

-=-

 

 

Moorelocks’s lead VP she drags kicking and screaming through a crowded office that she has willed into obliviousness. She leaves him stripped in a Burmese prison. She tips the guard on her way out. 

Moorelock’s COO goes quietly until they reach the airstrip. She leaves him in Sudan. 

It takes her just over a month to dismantle the entire board. 

She calls a meeting of the remaining 2ICs. She folds her hands on the table, and tosses her hair back. “I’m the new boss,” she informs them. 

They blink at her in confusion, then slowly begin nodding, almost sleepily. 

She smiles. 

 

 

-=-

 

 

They’ve started framing the second floor. Derek watches as workers scuttle around the exoskeleton of the brand-new structure that’s standing where his house used to be. It’s mildly unnerving how quickly the work is going. 

Scott interrupts his musings by thumping him on the shoulder. “It’s going well. See, I told you these were good guys.” 

Derek nods. Thanks to a loan with extremely generous terms from Lydia, the work is going very well. 

“We’ll have your house back up in no time,” Scott grins broadly. 

Derek thinks Scott looks ridiculous in his hard hat, but he keeps it to himself. “Thanks. For all this,” he says, feeling awkward. 

Scott shrugs and dismisses him. “Dude. You’re paying us, remember?” He lopes off to return to work. 

Stiles brings Thomas to Derek for the mid-day hand off. Except that Thomas immediately disappears into the cacophony of the work site, because at fifteen, he is way more interested in power tools than anything Derek has to say. 

“You hear from Lydia, lately?” Derek asks. 

Stiles nods. “Just briefly. She said she wanted to visit in a couple weeks. But I’m pretty sure she’s also supposed to be in New York and Brussels that week, so we’ll see.” 

Derek acknowledges this with a shrug. He frowns. Thomas is too close to the rotary saw for his comfort, regenerative healing powers or no. “Thomas!” he calls out and jerks his head to motion him away. Thomas sullenly complies. He looks and acts for all the world like any normal fifteen year old. Derek counts this as a win. 

“Okay. Well, I’m headed to the library,” Stiles says. “You got this?” 

Derek grins. “Yeah, Stiles I got it.” He catches Stiles’ hand long enough to run his thumb over Stiles’ knuckles before letting him go. 

Nearby, Thomas makes exaggerated gagging and retching noises. 

Derek has a sudden vision of burpees and wind sprints in his future. “Come on, kid.” He pauses to watch what Thomas is watching – they’re bringing one of the walls up using a crane. 

Derek smiles. His pack is whole and safe, and at least for the moment, here. They may wander but, he can admit, they can take care of themselves pretty well, and he’s building something solid for them to come home to.

**Author's Note:**

> Although it’s probably patently obvious, I feel I should mention my knowledge of Economics is just as made up as my knowledge of Werewolves, and What the Kids Are Up To These Days. However, if you are at all interested in some of the topics touched on in Lydia’s plot line, I can’t recommend NPR’s Planet Money podcast highly enough. 
> 
> Also, a million thank you’s to Trip Trap who read and edited multiple drafts of this story. It’s about a billion times better because of her help. A second pair of eyes can make all the difference in the world between dreading working on your story, and actually enjoying the editing process, so – thank you!
> 
> She also shared the poem with me that became the inspiration for the title. It’s lovely, and I’ve reproduced it below.
> 
> "We're building the ship as we sail it"
> 
> The first fear  
> being drowning, the  
> ship's first shape  
> was a raft, which  
> was hard to unflatten  
> after that didn't  
> happen. It's awkward  
> to have to do one's  
> planning in extremis  
> in the early years -  
> so hard to hide later:  
> sleekening the hull,  
> making things  
> more gracious.
> 
> -Kay Ryan
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
